


Reckless Captain

by WerewolvesAreReal



Category: Temeraire - Naomi Novik
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragons, Alternate Universe - Human, Gen, Napoleonic Wars, The Dragons are humans, The Humans Are Dragons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-07-10 16:04:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6992725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WerewolvesAreReal/pseuds/WerewolvesAreReal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Regal Copper Laurentius accidentally acquires a captain, Tharkay spectates, Temeraire is Not Actually an Orphan, and no one really knows who's leading France. Someone should probably get on that, considering England is at war with the place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reckless Captain

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a tumblr post: http://chocolate-dandy.tumblr.com/post/116763622997/tane-p-chocolate-dandy-replied-to-your  
> Thank you to chocolate-dandy for giving me permission to use the idea!

Laurentius wishes people would stop visiting.

It is not particularly that he minds the company. In fact good conversation would be a great relief, and he has thought of society wistfully during his long years wasted at Pen Y Fan. But the men and rare women who sidle into his clearing are not interested in conversation, not really. Sometimes they bring gifts in the form of small gold chains, other times goats or other bits of food which they think will entice a lonely dragon. None of these things suffice, of course.

It is late evening, and with some weariness he has finally hinted to the last of these unpleasant suitors that he really must sleep when a tiny shape bursts through the boundary of trees that sets his clearing apart. Sticks and leaves crack against the earth as a little body vanishes into the undergrowth.

Laurentius rears up in alarm. He peers at the ground, but for a moment it is hard to locate the source of the disturbance. Then a boy rockets up – Laurentius will deny forever that he startles – and begins to speak shockingly loud and fast:

“Oh! But you should not be here,” he accuses. Then: “You are so very large. Is it uncomfortable?”

“I beg your pardon,” Laurentius says. The child, staring up at him with unabashed curiosity, is dressed in the uniform of an aviator but appears to be Chinese. He speaks English quite comfortably, however. “I do not know where else I should be.” He chooses to ignore the comment about his size.

“There are no dragons this far from the covert,” says the boy, speaking quite confidently despite the evident contradiction in front of his eyes. “I know all the captains here, and you are with none of them – are you a spy?” he asks hopefully.

Laurentius sputters. “No.”

“Oh.” The boy seems disappointed. “I have never met a spy.”

“If you do, hope he is not thirty-eight tons,” says Laurentius dryly. “No; my name is Laurentius, Runner. And I have no captain.”

“I am called Temeraire, and I have a captain, but he is being very unpleasant,” the runner tells him earnestly. To Laurentius' disbelief Temeraire walks forward and promptly climbs onto his fore-talon, rearranging himself to sit comfortably between two large claws. “He wishes for me to learn about politics and the government.”

“Those seem like important subjects.”

“But they are so very _dull,_ and make no sense anyway,” Temeraire sighs. “I would much rather have lessons about poetry, or mathematics, but everyone tells me to quit inventing lies when I talk about math. _I_ am not to blame because they are all particularly foolish and cannot understand simple calculus.”

“It is not polite to say such things,” Laurentius chides gently. “Perhaps they do feel foolish; but would you enjoy it, to not understand something and be called silly?”

Temeraire shifts and kicks his boot against one of Laurentius' scales. “...I suppose not,” he sulks.

“Though,” Laurentius concedes, “Certainly if you are so excellently advanced you should not neglect math or other subjects, either. It would quite waste your potential.” Temeraire brightens.

“Yes, I shall tell them that,” he says. “It would be _wasteful._ Not just boring.”

Laurentius eyes him suspiciously. “Are you meant to be out this late...Temeraire?” he asks, choosing to drop the rank. He has always held a fondness for young runners.

A flicker of sheepishness drops over Temeraire's face. Laurentius heaves a sigh. The recoil shifts his body and forces Temeraire to cling to his talon lest he fall to the ground. “Come, then,” Laurentius says as he plucks up the runner. “Let us find your captain.”

Captain Levit is a thin, somewhat anxious man with premature spots of gray in his hair despite his evident youth. When Laurentius trundles into Rankin's clearing clutching Temeraire – loudly protesting – in his grip, he rushes forward with relief.

“Oh! Thank you - has he disturbed you, Laurentius? Temeraire, what have you been doing?”

“He was no trouble at all,” says Laurentius honestly. Behind Levit Rankin, a particularly small Roi-de-Vitesse, eyes them doubtfully. “But I thought you might appreciate his presence for your nightly lessons.”

Temeraire sighs loudly.

“Certainly,” Levit says. “Oh, thank you, and, here Temeraire, would you not be interested in these new books I've brought from the town - “

Temeraire feigns his disinterest poorly. Laurentius turns away to hide his amusement, wings twitching; he sees Rankin watching him coldly from the end of the clearing. For a light-weight the area is absurdly large.

In the dark he walks back to his own clearing alone.

* * *

 

Laurentius is nearly asleep when a voice pulls him back awake:

“Perhaps you can explain something to me. You do not seem particularly horrible.”

He blinks awake. “How... kind,” Laurentius says, and lifts his head to look at Temeraire.

The boy squints up at him. “Were you sleeping? I am sorry.” He does not sound very sorry. “I have been with Rankin all day, you see, and I needed to speak with _someone_ about it, and all the other captains and officers get so strange when I try. It is only that I do not see why Levit wants to have Rankin at all.”

“You do not want to be a captain?” Laurentius asks. That is the goal of all aviators, so it has always seemed to him. Such an aversion would seem strange at best.

“I do not see why being a captain is such a good thing when one is also miserable because of it,” Temeraire says. “Rankin is a very unpleasant creature – I think he only wants Levit's money, really, though Captain Levit is perfectly kind and tries so very hard to make him happy. And he will never leave, no matter how uncaring Rankin is. I am sure he will never get another dragon.”

“Any person may be greedy or selfish. So a dragon may be, too. That is life.”

“But it is not _fair.”_

“It is between Levit and Rankin, I fear.” Laurentius bends his neck to nudge Temeraire. “Pray do not be distressed.”

Temeraire sighs gustily and flings himself onto Laurentius' leg without ceremony. “Will you tell me why you are alone here?” he asks. “ _You_ would not be awful to your captain, I am sure, so why do you not have one?”

“I have not yet found anyone to match my first companion,” Laurentius says. “People cannot be replaced, Temeraire. She will never be replaced, indeed, but even if duty will have me fight, I cannot in good faith pledge myself to someone without fully meaning it.”

“Many dragons take captains they barely know.”

“It would not be right. I cannot make a promise so lightly – and that is what it is to take a captain, a promise to serve forever. “

“I had not thought of it that way. Is it not immoral, then, to harness dragons from the egg like they do here?”

Laurentius pauses to shift from one side to another. “Well,” he hedges. “The needs of the state must necessarily come first, and of course all efforts are made to pair suitable persons with good dragons - “

“But that does not take into account your feelings, or your desires; it seems quite wrong to me,” Temeraire says. “I would rather find it a cause for resentment, surely.”

“I could never have resented Edith,” says Laurentius wistfully. “She was quite anxious when I hatched – they did not want a woman having a Regal Copper, but she was only on site by accident. She was so very kind... When the man that was meant for me grew upset and left she sat down and explained everything very patiently, and told me about her parent's businesses– she let me examine the embroidery on her dress – she did not care in the least that everyone called me feral. She named me after the saint of her family's church.”

Temeraire listens to this recitation with proper solemnity. “If you say so then I am sure she was very good. But the admirals had no way of guaranteeing that you two would meet, or be compatible - that you would be happy with anyone.”

“No one is guaranteed happiness,” Laurentius says. “And even when we have a captain, that bond lasts only for the length of the captain's life; Edith died many, many years ago, and I have had no one since then.” Laurentius pauses. He curls his tail around himself. “It is late, my dear. If you do not mind I would like to sleep now.”

* * *

 

Laurentius is always one of the first in the air when there is a call for reinforcements. Not having to go through the process of harnessing means he can leap straight into the air, though for the sake of prudency it isn't wise to go after enemies alone.

Still, as back-up a Regal Copper does quite well. When Harcourt's wing is attacked over the Channel Laurentius arrives in good time to fling himself upon a Petit Chevalier harassing the Xenica's flank. He's baffled when the entire formation – unusually large – turns on him at once. Three light-weights throw themselves at his wings, usually avoided in fights, and Berkley has to buffet them away. Instead of being a defender to the beleaguered formation, he becomes haplessly confused when Sutton and Warren are forced to intercept two Flamme-de-Gloires diving for his head.

The Petit Chevalier squirms away from his grasp and strikes a raking blow across his chest. Laurentius retracts his wings to dive away, absorbing some of the force. As he falls he can see a few more dragons winging to their aid in the distance. Perhaps cognizant of the same danger, the booming voice of the Petit Chevalier rises in the wind. A terrible cry echoes down as Little is struck. Then the French dragons are wheeling away and flying back to France.

* * *

 

Laurentius readjusts his position and sighs. Blood sluices to the ground in audible spurts, but the flow is slowing. He shuffles his wings and twists his head down to inspect the wound.

He is very tired. Sleep sounds like an excellent prospect. But just as he starts to stretch onto the ground a high-pitched voice calls out his name: _“Laurentius!”_

He sighs.

It is Temeraire, of course. Laurentius rolls his head to the side. “My dear,” he murmurs. “Perhaps another time?”

Then the blatant horror on the boy's face becomes apparent. Alarm at once overtakes his fatigue. Laurentius struggles to sit up. “Has something happened?” he asks.

“You are hurt!” Temeraire cries. “Were you injured in the battle? Why is there no doctor here?”

“It is only a scratch,” Laurentius protests. “See, it is almost done bleeding.” Which is quite true.

Temeraire makes a sound that is hard to classify. Then he whirls around and runs from the clearing.

Laurentius looks after him for awhile. Then, shifting his wings, he settles back down.

Several minutes later there is a fuss at the edge of the clearing. “Yes, yes, I am _coming,_ there is no need to pull – oh, what have you done?” someone asks severely. “Look at you. Stand up and don't move, you foolish creature, so I can look at that - “

Laurentius shoots Temeraire a betrayed look but complies as the dragon-surgeon approaches. Temeraire looks greatly relieved.

“This is quite unnecessary,” he says again.

“It is entirely necessary,” Temeraire says. “And I do not understand why you were not treated immediately - do you have no crew, no one at all?”

“No. It is part of my agreement with the admiralty. They agreed I do quite well without assistance or supervision – though, it would be nice to fly with a crew,” Laurentius sighs. “Grenadiers are very helpful.”

“And _surgeons,”_ Temeraire says.

“It was only a scratch,” Laurentius repeats.

“It is not.” The surgeon, Keynes, walks up to him. “I can wrap the wounds, but you have cracked a rib; and how that was managed I cannot fathom. You will have to be quite cautious to avoid doing further damage. I daresay we will never manage to properly set the thing if it breaks fully.”

Temeraire begins to fret quietly. Laurentius heaves a quiet sigh.

* * *

 

By now Laurentius rather expects Temeraire's unannounced visits to his clearing. What he fails to expect is the veritable procession that tramps into sight around evening just when Laurentius is starting to wonder how he is supposed to fly to the pens for a cow without moving his ribs.

Temeraire walks in at the front of the group completely unburdened. Behind him three men of clear Chinese descent heft pots, bags, and nets of what seem to be vegetables and spices. More men and women trail behind – perhaps not Chinese, to Laurentius' unpracticed eye, but certainly descendents of some Eastern countries. He stares in bewilderment. None of the procession are wearing aviators' uniforms, but they do not seem afraid of him in the least. One man offers a polite nod.

They are ushering two goats into the clearing.

“Whatever are you doing now?” Laurentius despairs. But Temeraire just beams at him.

“I have been told you are not eating well – and injured dragons need to eat, it is very important. It does not surprise me at all that you do not want the food here. The English are horrible to their dragons, so I have brought cooks for you.”

Laurentius has never heard anything quite so ridiculous in his life. “You cook for the dragons? Why? We do not need it.”

“But it must make eating much more pleasant,” Temeraire says. “I suppose I could run around naked when it is warm, but it would certainly be uncomfortable; and I am _able_ to sleep on the ground, but no one much likes doing it.” He pauses, then looks around Laurentius' clearing critically. “In China, dragons do not sleep on the ground either.”

Laurentius has an absurd mental image of a dragon-sized bed stuffed with full birds. Oh, no. “I am quite content, my dear, thank you – but wherever,” he realizes suddenly, “did you even find these men?”

Temeraire looks suddenly shifty. “...They are volunteers?” he tries. One of the older workers pauses to eye him dubiously.

Perhaps it is better he does not know.

He watches in some resignation as a perfectly good goat is hacked apart and deposited in a vat. A savory smell wafts through the clearing as a fire is made. Laurentius determinedly ignores it. “You have never told me how you came to be in England.”

“Oh – I am from Peking. I was traveling with a group, and there was an accident with the ship. We came ashore near the Gibraltar covert.”

“We?”

“Myself and a few others,” Temeraire evades. “I joined the aviators there, and that is why they called me _Temeraire,_ after the ship that rescued us – because no one could pronounce my name here. Not that it is hard. Oh, excellent. You will like mushrooms, Laurentius. I have never understood how the English feed their dragons without vegetables, though it does explain why the country has so very few of you.”

“Temeraire,” he says, both dismayed and a little suspicious, “I am quite appreciative, however, I do not understand - “

He is interrupted when yet _another_ person comes into his clearing. She walks in very firmly, with quick strides, saying, “Temeraire, I must ask you to come at _once,_ this text is ridiculous and I do not understand why you should have lent it to me - “

She stops when she sees Laurentius properly. “This is Perscitia!” Temeraire introduces. “She is excellent at mathematics – almost as good as I am.”

“Quite better,” the girl mutters beneath her breath. She eyes Laurentius warily and stays carefully behind Temeraire, blinking wide gray-blue eyes that give her a permanently startled appearance.

“Do _you_ enjoy math, Laurentius?” Temeraire asks.

“I cannot say I know much about it,” he confesses. He can figure out where to fly – Edith ensured that – but he was never interested in more. Temeraire looks faintly scandalized.

“Oh, I will bring you books, then,” he says.

“ _Not_ the same one you gave me,” Perscitia huffs, clearly drawn back to her original outrage. “It was entirely wrong.”

“Then you clearly misunderstood it,” Temeraire says, offended, “Or your Chinese is not good enough,” and that only escalates matters.

Despite the argument Laurentius senses no real enmity between them, and it is good to know that Temeraire has a friend his own age. He is pleased to meet her for another reason as well - Laurentius has begun to wonder whether Temeraire was not trying to lure him into taking a captain. It is perhaps an absurd suspicion to take about a child, but such a thought is applicable to any aviator. Officers trying to entice dragons never bring along possible competitors, however.

“You are students together, then?” He interrupts after a moment. “Or are you also a runner on Rankin?”

“No one will take me as a runner, but that is just fine – it is much better to be educated, anyway,” Perscitia says airily. But she turns her head aside quickly, and Laurentius doubts that her long stay in the schoolroom is entirely voluntary.

“Do you intend to captain one of the Longwings, Perscitia?” he asks. Laurentius is surprised to see her shudder.

“Longwings fight so often,” she says. “I would like to have a courier – but of course the couriers talk to people so much, so _that_ will not be allowed. I do not see why I should be punished because no one else can stand to see me out of dresses,” she says bitterly.

“Perhaps the laws will change,” Temeraire suggests.

“Ha! And perhaps women might vote too, and slavery will end, and no one will ever go hungry again,” she says. “I will keep thinking about math, which is sensible. _You_ may try politics if it works for you.”

One of the cooks approaches Temeraire. “Oh! It is finished, Laurentius; now you will see just how excellent food is when done _properly.”_

Laurentius is dubious. But the cooks look eager, and he supposes it is not polite to waste their efforts, so with a stifled sigh he leans down toward the larger vat.

“...Oh,” he says a minute later, almost dismayed: “Oh, that is quite excellent.”

Temeraire beams.

* * *

 

“...and when the sum is multiplied by the natural logarithm...”

“My dear, please stop,” says Laurentius. “I must confess, I cringe at the very word 'logarithm'. I fear that mathematics are not for me.”

Temeraire sighs a little. “Perhaps you are more of a poet,” he says.

Laurentius cannot think of anything worse than math. “Yes, I am sure of it,” he says.

Temeraire closes the book and places it in his lap. He is sitting curled in the dip of Laurentius' shoulder where he fits quite comfortably. “I hope that I can keep talking to you,” he says suddenly. “Admiral Obversaria has been making many adjustments to all the formations, and Levit says they are thinking of having me join Captain _Iskierka's_ crew.” Temeraire adds, bitterly, “She is the most outrageous person in the world.”

“You should respect your officers, Temeraire.”

“Oh, but you would not respect her if you met her! She will talk only of finding prizes and killing the French – and she is horrible, truly horrible. She will never listen to anyone, not ever.”

“Because you are a paragon of obedience, I can see,” says Laurentius dryly. “She cannot be as bad as that if she has made captain.”

Temeraire sniffs haughtily. “Granby was her father's dragon; she _inherited_ him. She's only a year older than me,” which means she is ten.

“...Ah,” says Laurentius. Suddenly the visage of a bloodthirsty madwoman makes much more sense in the guise of a child. “Well, I am sure she will calm with age; you may be a restraining influence on her.”

“But I do not _want_ to be a restraining influence on her, and oh, Laurentius, even her lieutenants are afraid of her!” Temeraire sighs gustily. “I will try to get on Berkley, or Harcourt. That would be famous. Even Little or Sutton... They would all serve better than Rankin.”

“That I do not doubt,” Laurentius says, but he shifts uneasily nevertheless. “...My dear...”

Suddenly a familiar alarm sounds through the covert – a call for action. Above, a courier rises into the air and begins signaling directions toward an action. Laurentius rears up, waits, and finally sees the confirmation-flag which means he is to accompany the group heading out. “Oh!” says Temeraire. “I am sorry, Laurentius, I must get back to Rankin!”

Laurentius deposits Temeraire on the ground. His wings shiver and tremble against his back. He watches the boy disappear through the far treeline, and then, only then, does he lunge into the air.

* * *

 

It is Murat on the field – Murat, a rather perplexing Honneur D'Or who somehow leads one of France's most menacing formations. The Aerial Corps have never been able to account for this mid-weight– but then, they have never been able to rationalize the Petit Chevalier that has been showing up with increasing frequency, either, a beast leading formations composed solely of hulking dragons - Grand Chevaliers, Defendeur-Braves, and Chanson-Guerres - without the apparent benefit of a captain. If the Armeé de l'Air is trying some strange new tactic, Laurentius thinks, it is working only too well; the Corps is finding it increasingly hard to beat them back.

Of late the war with France has undergone an oddly quiet lull on the sea, but the aerial strikes are becoming especially ferocious. There is little news on the movements in France, on the political situation – indeed no one is even quite certain who leads post-Revolutionary France presently. There was some talk of three consuls being elected, only two of them widely known. The third was a mystery to most of the world, which seems as absurd as it is unlikely; now there are whispers of an Emperor. It makes Britain and her allies uneasy.

Personally, Laurentius is of the opinion that the men in Government _must_ have some notion of who rules France presently – but if they have chosen to hide this knowledge, and have been _successful,_ that is only all the more worrisome. How can a leader's identity possibly remain a secret for so long?

Today Murat and his captain are out in full temper. Laurentius does not accompany any official formation, and he is among the first to arrive. He finds the French hassling three third-rate frigates. Murat's formation often changes, but the core is solid; two Defendeur-Braves and a Parnassion, accompanied by a Flamme-de-Gloire and a stalwart Pecheur-Couronne. Today two scarlet Garde-de-Lyons flank the lot.

Murat himself strikes at Laurentius with the two light-weights attacking his flanks. Though only a mid-weight, his ferocity cannot be ignored and he makes a clever opponent. Laurentius tries to claw the French dragon's chest, but his talons clang against hard metal – a gold-sheathed breastplate emblazoned with the eagle of France. One of the light-weights uses Laurentius' distraction to wheel above him so its crew can start dropping bombs.

The flash-burn of the bombs sear his scales, though most bounce and explode only near him or miss entirely. The chaos motivates Laurentius to veer away from the fight and gain some distance. Back-up arrives at a good time. Captain Fluitare on Denever arrives at the head of the formation. Rankin is among them flying only somewhat out of sync with the others.

Laurentius wheels around to soar above the formation when they make a pass. He plummets down to chase away one of the Defendeur-Braves when it tries to lunge at a Yellow Reaper. He is glad he cannot be boarded, but grenadiers would be endlessly helpful right now.

After chasing another dragon from Denever's tail he turns to find that two-lightweights are nipping at Rankin. They scatter when Laurentius approaches, but Rankin is flying oddly. At a glance he doesn't seem to be boarded or injured, so Laurentius twists around to fling himself back into the fray.

Murat retreats soon enough – the Flamme-de-Gloire is beat back from the ships and releases a few final warning flames before wheeling after her wingmates, and they vanish Southeast heading back to France.

Laurentius is quite ready to head back, but Captain Fluitare yells out his speaking horn, “Levit, man, what the devil are you doing?”

He looks over. Rankin is flying in small loops while talking to someone on his back; Laurentius swings closer when he recognizes a small form with no rank but he cannot hear the conversation. Another dragon, Sanderson, says, “Here, now, _I_ have Captain Levit,” and to further confusion he indeed seems to be holding the abashed man in his claws.

Rankin doesn't move for his captain immediately, though. Only after some more circling and confused wheeling does he at last slowly, reluctantly, fly to Sanderson and accept his captain back into his harness.

* * *

 

The commotion is great and loud, but Laurentius tries not to interfere with the general fuss of covert life. He is quite content to lay prostrate in his clearing – the grenadiers bomb really did an unfortunate bit of damage to his back, though nothing serious – when Perscitia runs into his clearing. “Oh, everyone is so stupid!” She bursts. “They are going to throw out Temeraire!”

So then, of course, Laurentius _has_ to interfere.

He finds them in Rankin's tiny clearing – small by his standards, but larger indeed than what is typically afforded to any light-weight, and Laurentius has no issue fitting his bulk inside. There are both captains and admirals on the ground, all of whom go momentarily quiet at the sight of him.

“Well, what is it,” Admiral Obversaria asks.

“Pray do not mind me,” Laurentius says flatly, and hunches over, and waits.

A pause. Temeraire stands between Levit and Obversaria; Rankin, opposite everyone, lashes his tail angrily; another admiral is also present, who Laurentius vaguely recognizes as Admiral Geron.

Eventually they do decide to ignore him.

“These are serious accusations – ridiculous accusations,” Geron tells Temeraire resentfully. “Now if you just revoke your statement it will not go so bad for you - “

“I do not understand it,” Levit keeps saying, increasingly confused. “Temeraire is - “

“Temeraire is an awful child, and no aviator,” Rankin spits. “He mutinied – disobeyed orders – he - “

“I did no such thing!” Temeraire exclaims angrily. “Levit was _captured,_ and then Rankin was being very horrible and tried to leave everyone behind. Even his captain.”

“Oh my,” says Levit miserably.

“He is a damn liar,” scoffs Admiral Geron. “That's not how dragons work - What is he doing here, anyway? This is not India, or wherever – get him out, he has no business here.”

Temeraire stiffens.

“Now,” Admiral Obversaria protests, “That is a bit much - “

“It is not. We have no need for some fever-headed fosterling, and I do not care a whit who took pity on him. He is lucky he is too young too be whipped - “

And finally Laurentius cannot stand it. “If you whip my captain,” he says, almost trembling with fury, “I swear to god, Sir, I will kill you.”

Everyone falls silent.

“...I am sorry,” he adds impulsively. They are all so very small. “But I will.”

“Oh dear,” says Obversaria.

* * *

 

Laurentius is accustomed to working alone. Now captained, he expects to be assigned to solitary patrols, so it's a surprise when Admiral Obversaria finally says that he will be put with a formation – Berkley's new formation, to be exact.

“You will make a good rear,” Obversaria says, and then adds, with a sigh, “And we can use an experienced dragon to watch Captain Iskierka, if you will refrain from telling her I said so.”

Temeraire is _thrilled._

“Laurentius, oh, I am so very happy – I have never been so happy, not ever. I was not worried about being a _captain_ but I am certain that you are the very best dragon in the world,” - and then, “What happened to your back, Laurentius?” Which is how he is put on medical leave for a week.

Of course this is not a wasted time. They will have to pick an entire crew now that Laurentius is not flying alone, and he utterly rejects the idea of letting anyone be assigned to them randomly. This decision might be motivated, somewhat, by the sight of Temeraire's small body running full-tilt into the clearing with his very own captain's coat, custom-made in green Chinese silk that he has appropriated from who knows where.

At least one assignation is easy; Perscitia becomes one of their runners, though she wheezes a little and is not actually good at the running part. Temeraire defends her and says that she will make an excellent tactician one day, which Laurentius supposes he cannot deny, but one day is not _today._

For all other positions they are holding interviews, and these have been... difficult.

They look for a First Lieutenant first from the short-list of candidates Obversaria gives them:

Lieutenant Repugnatis enters the clearing lazily, sits down, and leans over to tell Temeraire, “Now, now, I know its frightening getting a big beast like this; well, of course it is! Don't you worry anything, boy, Captains your age aren't much more than _handlers_ anyway; so of course I will do everything, and I'll be sure the crew doesn't hassle you too badly if you pay me mind.”

“We will certainly get back to you about that,” Laurentius says flatly, more glad than ever that the interviews are in his clearing. He leans over Temeraire's head to look straight in the man's eyes, but the lieutenant only nods to him, quite stupidly, and walks away with a bounce in his step.

Lieutenant Orchestia is not much better. She comes in with a very neat coat, looking quite proper for an interview, and answers his questions politely. But then she looks at Temeraire with a pleasant smile and says, “I can teach you just what you need to know, _Sir._ And you won't need to worry about managing anything, for you see, I have several years of experience and will take care of it all.”

Temeraire sighs loudly. “Do you assume I am quite stupid, like everyone else?” he asks. She blinks and does not answer. “You may go.”

The other interviews are much of the same. “They are mostly eager to be polite,” Temeraire says later, “But no one knows _how,_ and that is not a good sign, is it, that they think I should appreciate being coddled and condescended to?”

“No, my dear, it is not at all; but our list is becoming very narrow indeed. I fear we will find no good lieutenant at all.”

The final man they interview for the day looks likely to be no better than the others and, if anything, liable to be worse. Towering nearly three times larger than Temeraire, he walks up, looks over the child, and says, “Well, you are a small one, aren't you?”

Temeraire is quite tired of comments on both his size and his age. “Well, _you_ are a foolish one, are you not?” He snips back. “It does not seem very wise to me, walking into a clearing to insult the officer you mean to impress.”

“Who is insulting?” asks the officer, to all appearances befuddled. “You _are_ small, you know, Sir.”

Temeraire pauses.

“Bit fiery too,” the man continues idly. “I'm Lieutenant Recquiescat, Captain, pleased to meet you.”

“Oh,” Temeraire says, confused. “And you?”

Recquiscat tells them both of his previous services on Lenton and Sanderson – impressive names. “Surely you might hope for your own captaincy soon?” Laurentius asks dubiously.

“Ha, no; I doubt that. Maybe. A captain should be more for books and things – and soldierly things, too, but I'm only good at the soldiering bit.”

This does not particularly sound like an exceptional recommendation for a good First Lieutenant, Laurentius thinks, whatever his seniority. Then Temeraire asks, “Would you listen to my orders if I were captain? Without hesitation?”

Recquiscat looks faintly perplexed. “Well, that's what a lieutenant does for a captain, ain't it? I can't say as I know why I wouldn't.”

Temeraire straightens. “I see – Well I am satisfied with your answers so far, Mr. Recquiscat,” and the lieutenant brightens. “But I believe I really must see further if you are qualified to be my lieutenant. So you will take me to the city of Dover. I have some things there to do, you see, and we can talk further.”

Recquiscat shrugs. “S'alright.”

He is not very sharp, Laurentius reflects ruefully; but, he may yet do.

* * *

 

Temeraire returns from his visit curiously excited. When asked he will only say, evasively, that Recquiscat seems like a fine choice, and with some suspicion Laurentius must accept this answer.

Finding the other members of their crew is more of a challenge, but Recquiscat is tasked with finding suitable crewman who will work well under Temeraire – those are the particular instructions – and Temeraire, himself, takes a keen interest in the selection process. As for Laurentius, he is distracted by an entirely new concern the next day when he wakes up to see a small and familiar gray dragon winging toward his new clearing.

“Oh dear,” Laurentius says. The dragon lands neatly in front of him, wrapping his tail around his feet with fastidious care; “You have not flown all the way from the breeding grounds, I hope, without telling anyone at all?”

“And why should I need to ask permission?” Tharkay asks. “I heard that you have got yourself a captain; I hoped the rumors were false. Have they coerced you? I will help you get away if you need it.”

Laurentius is not sure if he is amused or warmed at the ludicrous thought of Tharkay, with all of his 10-ton bulk, offering to come to Laurentius' defense. Although, perhaps he should not underestimate the light-weight; he has, after all, somehow crossed half the country without being noticed. “I thank you, but I am quite content. I have found an excellent friend here – I am with him perfectly of my own volition.”

This seems to interest Tharkay rather than dissuade him. “You said you would take no one after Edith.”

“Temeraire is... special.”

“An odd name.” Tharkay flicks his tail. “Well, I will meet him then.” This being said he walks forward easily and marches right up Laurentius' side until he's standing on the Regal Copper's back, where he promptly sits down as though to prepare for a long wait. Laurentius twists his neck around to eye him with exasperation.

“I do not know when he may arrive,” he hints.

“Oh, that is fine,” Tharkay says, and closes his eyes. “You may tell me about what _else_ you have done in this ridiculous place in the meantime.”

* * *

 

“Well, he is young; that is good, I suppose,” Tharkay notes dryly. “ - you can still train him.”

Laurentius heaves a long sigh. Tharkay finishes his impromptu inspection while Temeraire watches him with fascination. “I have not seen a dragon quite like you,” the boy says, staring at the curling spikes that ring around Tharkay's body. “What is your breed?”

Tharkay snorts. “No one is quite sure; I was a _breeding experiment,”_ he says the term with some distaste, “that they bought off some country in the East. Supposedly my sire was a Malachite Reaper, though I doubt it.” He looks eerily like a large Grey Widowmaker if one ignores the spikes. “I suppose it does not matter to the government one way or another so long as they can fill their ranks.”

“And you have no captain?”

“I heard those men talking outside my egg, with one reassuring the other about how very well I would listen to them when I hatched – well, I will listen to no one but myself.” Here Tharkay shoots an irritable glance at Laurentius' thirty-eight ton hulk. “We are much larger than humans, so I have never understood how the situation came to be otherwise.”

“Through friendship,” Laurentius says. “And loyalty.”

“Friendship can induce many excellent things, Laurentius; it should not be a justification for slavery.”

“Matters are much better in China,” says Temeraire quietly. He seems worried. “You would like it there, I expect, and dragons without any companions at all can live for themselves and find work and pay just like people.”

“I will believe that when I see it,” Tharkay snaps.

Laurentius sighs. “Well, you are here now; and there is no use quarreling about it. Whatever will you do?”

“Oh, I doubt they even noticed I have left. The Winchesters slip away all the time, you know, and I am not _that_ much larger. They do not care that much about us if we only come out and act like meek cows now and again.”

“Oh, but could you not stay like Laurentius did, and fight without a captain?” Temeraire asks. “I am sure that would be much more interesting.”

“Fight for what purpose? Dragons only fight for captains – for slavery, as I said.”

“In China dragons would fight for loyalty to the country.”

“Then I should have to _be_ loyal to the country, first.” But Tharkay is twitching his wings in a way Laurentius recognizes. “...It cannot, however, be worse than the breeding grounds; and of course I could make certain you do not kill yourself.” He addresses this part to Laurentius.

“I would be most grateful,” Laurentius says dryly, but secretly he is pleased. Tharkay never fared well at Pen Y Fan.

“Well, it is certainly irregular,” Obversaria says when they propose the matter later that day. “ - But, we cannot refuse any dragons. I do not suppose _you_ will take at least a ground-crew, Tharkay?” He clearly recalls Laurentius' reluctance to work with any humans after Edith's death.

“No captain, no crew in the air; otherwise I have no objections to workers.”

“Mr. Arkady has been lazing about for weeks – I think he'll do you fine.” Laurentius pauses to wonder what sort of soul earns the thankless task of servicing a captainless dragon. “And for anything _else,_ you may appeal to Captain Temeraire.”

At that, Tharkay's grin is full of fangs. “It will be a _pleasure_.”

* * *

 

At fifty-five tons Berkley is the largest Regal Copper Laurentius has ever known. He seems to look Laurentius up and down as he approaches – though it is hardly the first time they have seen one another – and seems perfectly satisfied at the disparity in their sizes.

“Oh, very good,” Berkley says. “Nice to meet you properly. And your captain has already invited us all to that Poetry Night tomorrow, which is very handsome of you both. Little, especially, can hardly wait. And he never gets excited for anything.”

All of Laurentius' carefully-prepared greetings fly away. “What,” he says blankly.

The other dragons of his new formation are also nearby for the introduction – Harcourt, a young Xenica of just two years; Granby, a brilliantly red Flecha del Fuego who, as the result of an excellent pre-war trade, is the nation's only firebreather (for whatever reason, he is sporting an absurd amount of golden chains and talon-rings); the two Anglewings Little and Chenery; and Sutton and Warren, Grey Coppers.

“I have never heard much poetry,” Berkley continues. “Not that I have cared to; but Maximus is not interested, of course.”

“Immortalis has read me a few pieces,” Little says, coming closer. “I think it will be quite pleasant.”

“...Well – it is very good to meet you all at last,” Laurentius fumbles, trying to save his confusion. He has heard nothing about any poetry, save for Temeraire's occasional moans concerning his ignorance on the subject.

He is saved from proper formalities when Temeraire walks into the clearing and, perhaps hearing this comment, immediately protests. “Oh! It was meant to be a surprise – oh, did you all _tell_ him?”

“You did not say it was a surprise,” protests the Xenica, Harcourt. “However should we have known?”

“You may act surprised anyway,” Temeraire instructs Laurentius. This should not prove difficult; he is still very confused. “Oh, here, Granby is Iskierka's companion. I mentioned her, I think.”

“All good things, I hope,” says Granby in the gloomy sort of tone that says he expects otherwise.

Laurentius, still fumbling still over his earlier confusion, manages to regain himself. “Light-weight Granby, a pleasure to meet you,” he says politely. The Flecha del Fuego eyes him and does not reply to this.

Before he can be introduced to the others Temeraire interrupts, “Laurentius, Recquiscat wants to meet with us – we have selected most of the crew, and would like you to meet them before tomorrow.”

Laurentius straightens. “Oh, excellent. I apologize, but I am sure we will have time to speak later,” he tells the others. They nod easily and watch Temeraire as he turns to leave.

* * *

 

Laurentius tries not to let his feelings show. “This is everyone?” He clarifies for the third time. “ - There is no one else among the crew?”

“Yes, yes,” Temeraire says. The youngest of their new runners – a six year old named Minnow who should, by all rights, not even be in the Corps yet – is dangling by his side and staring at Temeraire's silk coat with wide eyes. “Here, we will introduce the officers first.”

There is Majestatis, a young black lieutenant of seventeen with a particularly educated accent; Laurentius would feel relatively comfortable about him if not for his somewhat alarming age. The _other_ lieutenant, a near-sighted man properly named Gentius, is at least forty – Laurentius wonders how he has not yet been promoted or released by incompetence, so there must be some story behind his long service.

Dirigion, only thirteen, is midwingman; so is the fifteen-year-old girl Cantarella. They actually have an alarming number of women, Laurentius notes – or rather girls, as none of them are very old. This would not be a concern of his except for the fact that it always causes trouble to have female officers when the crew must mingle with navy or army ranks for any purpose, and both his new grenadiers Ventiosa and Ballista are also young women. Little Laculla is the last runner and a pock-marked Japanese man named Armatius is introduced as the head of his ground-crew.

“I suspect the Admiral will foist a few more upon us,” says Recquiscat. “We need some riflemen and signal-ensigns yet.”

“Perscitia can be promoted to signal-ensign,” Temeraire says promptly. “She is not a good runner, anyway.”

That is precisely the _wrong_ reason to promote someone, but Recquiscat looks unfazed. “Very well, Sir.”

It is a motley crew – it is a _young,_ an appallingly young crew with no one but old Gentius to balance the ranks. But of course Laurentius cannot say this, and even as he wonders over Recquiscat's choices he realizes why these people have been chosen. Recquiscat was instructed, specifically, to find officers who would willingly take orders from Temeraire.

“I am very glad to meet you all – very glad,” says Laurentius. “...And I am sure that in time we shall make an excellent crew which the Corps can be proud of.”

* * *

 

“Well this is different,” says Chenery.

Red lanterns dot the treeline and sit in isolated clusters on the ground. The same 'volunteers' Temeraire found before – led by a man he has introduced as the illustrious Gong Su – have outdone themselves with decorations and food, and the wide field a few miles east of Dover easily fits all nine dragons and their crews.

“I do not know that we can have such marvelous decorations very often, but I think we should certainly have more Poetry Nights,” Temeraire says early on. “It is positively criminal, Laurentius, how little appreciation the people in this country show for poetry. Perhaps every week...?”

“Oh,” says Captain Lily. “I am not sure about that; but this _is_ quite beautiful,” she approves.

Captain Iskierka stomps over to survey Laurentius as the guests are still trickling in. She cranes her head to stare up at him, her fiery red braids trailing somewhere around her ankles like long coils of rope. “I suppose you are big enough to kill many Frenchmen, at least – though I am sure my Granby could still take you,” she informs him. Behind her Granby just sighs a little and squirms smaller in embarrassment. “That is good, because Temeraire does not appreciate battle properly. I hope _you_ know your duty?”

“I am always willing to serve England, Captain,” he says with careful politeness.

“Excellent. Now just do not get in our way, then.” She nods distractedly. “Better that he is with you, then with _us,_ where he will always be talking of poetry and silly things - “

“I do not talk always of poetry,” Temeraire says sourly. “And it is not stupid anyway - “

“Though I do like the food here, that is nice,” Iskierka barrels on. “Where did your servant Gong Su go? Oh, yes,” and she vanishes.

“Oh dear,” Laurentius says after a pause. For the sake of politeness he can say nothing more.

“Yes, I know,” says Granby anyway. Evidently he does not share the same compunctions. Then, blinking, he shoots Laurentius a fierce look and turns away, so perhaps he has blundered after all.

The food is precisely as delicious as Laurentius, guiltily, has come to expect. The other dragons exclaim over their meals with pleasure (and Iskierka, in particular, demands to know where she might hire her own cooks; “no one eats better than _my_ dragon.”) Somewhere around dessert Temeraire goes to a makeshift stage set up under a selection of dim white lanterns that have been gathered at one end of the field not far from the other aviators.

Most of the aviators seem primarily interested in eating and talking, but Temeraire – without any hint of hesitation or anxiety – calls for attention and goes to the front. “Thank you for coming! I am very glad that so many people have shown an interest in reciting poetry tonight. I will start with a poem by Nalan Xingde.”

Laurentius is startled when he begins speaking in Chinese – Mandarin, he thinks, from his limited knowledge on the subject. At least with poetry there is an interesting pattern to the words, so Laurentius pauses to appreciate the sounds even if he cannot understand what is being said. Temeraire stops after a minute and beams at the audience, receiving somewhat bemused applause.

A few more aviators go to the stage in fits and starts. Another crewman from Lily's complement recites in Portuguese, so Temeraire is not quite the odd one out. “Laurentius,” Temeraire says, having joined him to watch, “If you do not mind the interruption, I have meant to give you something tonight – I believe this would be an excellent time.”

Laurentius hides his wince as Warren's midwingman completely skips a line from one of Shakespeare's Sonnets. He would not even have noticed, he thinks ruefully, if only Temeraire would stop reading poetry aloud on off-duty hours. “Certainly,” he says aloud.

Temeraire departs through the crowd and returns, several minutes later during a nervous and original recitation from Mid-weight Little. They wait to applaud and congratulate the Anglewing before Laurentius turns his attention to the large crate Temeraire has brought over with the help of several midwingmen.

“It is traditional in China that we give our dragon companions a gift after everything is made official,” Temeraire says. “You are my dearest friend, and I hope that we may be together for the rest of our lives.”

Laurentius leans his head down and nudges Temeraire on the shoulder. The captain nearly falls over. “I do not need a gift to ensure that is so.”

“But nevertheless I would like to give you one,” he says, and so Laurentius agrees.

He pulls apart the box carefully – Temeraire assures him the gift will not be damaged – and at last pulls out an odd gold contraption. “A torque – is it not beautiful?” It is clearly not a rhetorical question; Temeraire watches him anxiously. “It is not quite like Chinese dragons would wear; it is styled a little more English. You see, the circle in the back fits it around the spike on your neck, so it will not shift in flight - “

“It is quite wonderful, thank you, dear,” Laurentius says warmly. He sets it down feeling perfectly content.

Poetry Night is more of a success than anyone might have anticipated. At one point a few gunners get into a competition over who is more 'scholarly' and choose to decide the matter by reciting increasingly bawdy poems at the front, practically yelling over each other until Berkley makes them shut their mouths for the sake of the young runners. Then Temeraire goes to the front again, announcing that, “Since Obversaria has announced he will be flying with us, Tharkay would also like to recite something.”

This is news to Laurentius, who cannot imagine a dragon less likely to be interested in poetry. He turns his neck to see Tharkay fluttering to the makeshift stage with every appearance of confidence, however, and when Temeraire steps aside he straightens.

“Temeraire has kindly helped me prepare this poem, which is a translation. He says it is from a poet of his country named _Zhao Li,_ so I suppose humans are good for something after all.”

Laurentius listens with a rising sense of dread:

_“For the powerful, everything is easy,_

_“They spit and it turns into pearls,_

_“Those dressed in hemp must harbor their 'jewels'_

_“Thoroughwort and melolitus turn into straw,_

_“It is only the worthy that are enlightened,_

_“But they are surrounded by fools;_

_“It's best then to stick to one's lot,_

_“Don't rush around in vain;_

_“Alas, oh, alas!_

_“This is fate.”_

The poem garners a few uncertain claps come from the assembled aviators. Little and Chenery, perhaps oblivious or else just genuinely approving, stamp their feet without any hint of discomfort. Tharkay strides up to Laurentius and curls up next to him radiating pleasure.

Laurentius slowly turns and eyes the smaller dragon, who blinks back at him with supreme innocence. “Perhaps I may understand the appeal of poetry after all,” Tharkay says.

* * *

 

The next morning dawns bright and clear. Laurentius' new clearing is placed right between Granby and Berkley and across from Harcourt. Tharkay has been officially afforded a place in Laurentius' old accommodations away from the rest of the covert's dragons. Unofficially, he seems quite ready to nap on a different heavy-weight every night. The larger dragons are too accustomed to this sort of behavior to put up a fuss about it.

Laurentius, stretching, sees a red dragon watching him over the treeline. “Light-weight Granby, good morning,” he greets. The dragon huffs and turns tail. Perhaps he is not fond of mornings.

Armatius and a few lanky teenagers come to prepare his harness. His new grounds-crew, he supposes. Laurentius is in the process of learning their names – a task made more difficult by the fact that they are running up and down his back adjusting straps as he makes inquiries – when Temeraire comes into the clearing.

“Oh, Laurentius, we are going _patrolling_ today with our new formation! Is that not splendid?”

They have barely practiced maneuvers with the others, but then, Laurentius is experienced enough to adapt. He only hopes his sudden presence will not disrupt the rest so soon. “Yes, dear,” he says, and leans down to nudge Temeraire indulgently when the child practically bounces in place.

They head over the Strait of Dover and begin flying in a low grid-pattern stretching north-east. Temeraire's enthusiasm wanes only slightly in the long, damp, repetitive hours. “It is strange,” he comments once as they pass a small schooner, “To think that so many people live on those ships, Laurentius; they look smaller than you from up here.”

“Also from down there,” Laurentius responds dryly.

Awhile later Berkley's signal-ensign relays a message, passed straight behind to Harcourt; all the dragons near the front of the formation repeat the signal in case there are any issues of visibility. The formation veers at once southward and pick up speed. The signals indicate a patrol of French dragons have been sighted.

“Eight wings,” Temeraire says eagerly, though Laurentius knows the signals perfectly well. “...Three heavy-weights, oh dear. But they will not be as good as you,” he informs Laurentius. “...Three mid-weights, two light-weights...”

The French are turning to meet them too. They aren't flying in a pattern Laurentius recognizes, which is fine. He expects as much after so many years, and his actions have been sadly limited lately. He will adapt.

Anyway, their formation is new, too, which means the French don't know what to expect either.

“Are you quite well, dear?” he asks as they approach.

“Oh, yes,” says Temeraire breathlessly. “ - Ballista! What are you doing? Get in position - “

They meet the French like a battering-ram with Berkley's huge bulk at the fore. He flings himself around while Little and Chenery flank him and swipe at everyone who swerves away. Granby, immediately behind, takes advantage of the distraction and cover to shoot fire at anyone who gets too close. Laurentius can hear Iskierka's shrill, disproportionate laughter even from the back. Sutton and Warren mostly guard him from boarders – as the country's sole fire-breather, even a light-weight is indispensable – and Laurentius, plowing in from behind, heaves himself at any dragons that might have slowed or snagged his formation-mates while Tharkay darts down from overhead wherever he pleases. Sutton finds himself being wrestled down by a troublesome Papillon Noir, so Laurentius slams into the black dragon and sends them bursting apart.

Of course the French have their own tactics – they must – but Laurentius only lends it half his attention as their formation wheels around for another pass. Regal Coppers are too slow to turn as fast as the other dragons, so this time Berkley finds himself at the back of the formation and Laurentius is backed by Little and Chenery, as they've practiced. There are advantages to having similar dragons in a group.

The second pass is more ferocious. Temeraire is still yelling at the grenadiers, but Laurentius keeps an ear tilted and hears no directions for himself until, “Laurentius! The Papillon Noir, by Granby, get us above him; we are going to try a boarding.”

Boardings are a dreadful risk for the crew, but necessary, and the Papillon is clearly distracted in its own attempt to board poor Granby – an unsuccessful attempt, Laurentius can see. The mid-weight weakened its crew by sending over a small number of boarders, but he did not send nearly enough; Iskierka likes picking fierce men and women, and for all her small size she's a magnificent fighter herself. Laurentius can see her now near the light-weight's neck, blood-smeared, waving two guns and shouting insults over the corpse of a French midwingman.

Cantarella leads the group that jumps with Dirigion right behind. Laurentius risks a glance behind his shoulder and finds Recquiscat stomping around with the grenadiers while Majestatis hovers nervously by Temeraire. Clearly the two lieutenants don't dare leave the untried captain alone just yet.

Gentius has also stationed himself with Temeraire, though he is not much use as a guard if they are boarded; his experience is more valuable, though. “Sir,” hints his heavier voice. “The French are retreating, and we are at the front of the formation. Should we signal?”

“Oh; should we?” Temeraire asks, and then, “Yes! Yes – Laurentius - “

“We are faster,” Laurentius says, “We could catch them. But I believe we already have a prisoner to watch over, my dear.”

“...Oh!” Temeraire sounds both pleased and relieved. “Gentius, pray tell the signal-ensigns to relay that to the other dragons. We need to return to England with the Papillon.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Cantarella waves at them, grinning, from the back of the sulking black dragon. They all head back to Dover much more slowly with their reluctant guest in tow.

* * *

 

The Papillon Noir is named Cendre. His first demand when he lands at Dover is for his captain to be returned to France; he will go straight to the breeding grounds and die there, he says heroically, if only his captain will be freed.

Of course, this won't be happening.

Captain Lyon is carted away for questioning while Cendre sulks. Tharkay's clearing has been commandeered for the purpose, not that he seems to care. Berkley and Laurentius, as two of the largest dragons in the covert, are assigned as his guard while Granby, sitting idly nearby, spouts occasional puffs of flame and scuffs the ground sheepishly. Iskierka insists that his presence will be a great deterrent to escape. The French captive seems unimpressed by the small fire-breather.

Maximus and Temeraire sit with their dragon – well away from the reach of the captive, in case he gets ideas – while Cendre stubbornly ignores their attempts at conversation.

“He looks a bit funny, doesn't it?” Berkley asks after repeated efforts have failed. “That black hide, and all. S'not natural, just having one color.”

Finally Cendre bristles. “Oh, that is nice, insulting me when I am already your prisoner,” he says through a slight accent. “And anyway it far nicer than _your_ colors, all flashy and ridiculous. I do not see what purpose your they suit at all.”

Berkley is unfazed. “So you can talk,” he says cheerfully.

“I am sure your color is most helpful at night,” Laurentius says. Privately, he thinks there is not much point with a black hide being useful at night when a dragon cannot see in the dark. At least the Fleur-de-Nuit dragons are sensible in that respect.

“I think it is a beautiful color,” Temeraire contributes unexpectedly. “The Celestial dragons, who are the most wonderful dragons in China, are completely black. So are their cousins the Imperials. They are often our best advisors and poets and mathematicians. You look a little like them, even, with your excellent ribbed wings,” he tells the French dragon.

Cendre is a bit mollified. “Well, thank you.”

Laurentius nudges his torque. “Yes,” he says. “...Celestials.”

Maximus hits Temeraire lightly upside the head.

“What? I – Oh! Of course your colors are excellent as well, Laurentius. - Nearly as nice as the Celestials!”

“...Thank you, my dear,” Laurentius sighs.

“I have never heard of Celestials, but I suppose that is usual in your country, dragons having positions outside the military?” Cendre asks in interest.

“Yes, it is not like England or France at all.”

“Well, not like _England,”_ Cendre sniffs. “ - I am a _sous-capitaine_ , of course.”

Even Temeraire is startled by this information. “Dragons have ranks in France?” This time, Maximus asks the question.

“It would be very silly of the Emperor not to award me a rank simply for being a dragon – though I do know it was different before.”

“Humans in England do not seem eager to give our dragons ranks,” Temeraire says. “And it _is_ very silly, but it is also true.”

“Yes, but since the Emperor is also a dragon he has no reason to faint when he sees us, or scream, or do other annoying things,” the French dragon responds reasonably. “It has been ever so wonderful since he took the throne. No one tries to say we are animals anymore...”

Laurentius jolts upright, staring. “Good god,” he says.

Maximus sprints away in the direction of Obversaria's office.

A moment later (“Oh, you did not _know_ he is a dragon? ...Could you be inclined perhaps to forget?”) Temeraire turns and says, “I do not see the fuss, Laurentius. Does it matter very much that the Emperor of France is not a human?”

Laurentius stares down at Temeraire. “Of course it does!”

“Well I do not see why,” the child tells him. “The Yellow Emperor was one of China's most excellent rulers. He was a famous Celestial dragon. We had humans on the throne afterward, but sometimes dragons have served as regent when Emperors were ill, or there were disputes, and it has been hardly worthy of note. A few centuries ago I think a Celestial ruled for something like thirty years.”

“China sounds like an excellent place,” Cendre says.

A few minutes later heavy, strict wingbeats approach. Laurentius scans the air and nearly topples over.

A female Regal Copper lands. The captive Papillon Noir glances around at his larger English counterparts and the newcomer says, “You, you're that Laurentius, aren't you?”

“Heavyweight Roland,” he says formally. “Were you interested in speaking to the prisoner?”

“ _I_ am not – at the moment.”

Admiral Excidium climbs to the ground and begins to approach the poor Papillon. The mid-weight scrunches against the ground and cowers under her stare.

And in their own face-off, Roland lowers her head slightly so she's looking eye-to-eye with Laurentius. “So. You are the dragon everyone has been fussing over – because of _this_ captain, I assume?” She swivels her head around toward Temeraire's startled face.

Laurentius folds his wings. He tries to muster up some indignation on Temeraire's behalf, but only musters a meek, “Yes, Sir.”

Roland is a legend in the Corps. Like most female Regal Coppers she's preposterously large – an even 50 tons at least, if not larger, though Berkley is a rarity in that he probably manages to outweigh her. Scars and burns shimmer over the red scales on her face, famous souvenirs from the Glorious First of June. Her wings, if rumors hold, should be covered up and down with burns and scores from the Battle of the Nile. There's something remarkably dignified - remarkably fearsome - about a dragon with so much experience.

“You have heard of us?” Temeraire asks.

“Well,” Roland tells him, “In fact I volunteered to come see you. You see I've wanted very much to meet you both.”

Laurentius stares.

“Do not terrify the poor thing,” Admiral Excidium says. Laurentius has not been called a 'poor thing' since he nearly died in the War of the Spanish Succession. To Temeraire: “We are here to talk to Cendre because Admiral Obversaria is out; and anyway we would get the news soon. Roland is being made flag-dragon. I'm taking over for the Admiral here at Dover next month.”

“Congratulations, Sir!”

Roland bares her teeth at Laurentius and flicks her tail. Berkley peers between them with interest while Laurentius tries to burrow into the ground as best as he can.

* * *

 

“She did not even look at me,” Berkley says later, half-amused and half-wistful. They've been relieved by a pair of Chequered Nettles and it's nice to stretch in the wide fields behind the main covert structure. “...Of course, you are so small I suppose it does not matter.”

Laurentius huffs a little, but it is a bit hard to protest when Berkley is a quarter again his weight.

Granby comes fluttering to join them, and for an especially surprising turn he wants to speak to Laurentius. “If you please – alone,” he adds awkwardly, nudging at his nose with embarrassment as he glances toward Berkley.

The larger Regal Copper just shrugs and lumbers away.

“Yes?”

“You called Roland _Heavyweight_ Roland,” Granby says.

“...Yes?” Laurentius says.

Granby looks at him a bit blankly. “You do that to everyone?”

“I'm sorry?”

Now the little firebreather huffs up a bit. “Why, I thought you were mocking me a bit when we met. 'Light-weight Granby', indeed! Whyever do you talk like that?”

Laurentius leans back. “I beg your pardon,” he says. “Is that not the polite greeting? It was always so when I served.”

“When _did_ you serve – how old are you?”

“I suppose I do not know precisely.” Laurentius shifts his wings. “Oh – my first years were a bit of a rush during the wars. We were fighting the Spanish, and then the French, and we were _always_ fighting Portugal. England, that is. I myself was only involved in a few skirmishes with Portuguese dragons. I rather suppose the Civil War took place only a decade or two after my hatching – that was when King Charles was executed.”

“The Civil – good god, you are old,” says Granby with surprise. “You do not look it.”

“Thank you, I think,” says Laurentius ruefully.

“Well, then I owe you an apology. I might have acted a bit stuffy, you know.”

Laurentius had not greatly noticed. “There is no harm done,” he assures. “Shall I avoid any titles in the future?”

“Titles – hah! Like I'm a captain,” Granby says. “Do whatever you like, I suppose. Only do not make me sound too grand in front of Iskierka.” He rattles his wings sadly. With his great number of chains and trinkets the sound produced is not unlike the clinking of cutlery at a feast. “She has quite enough airs already, and I must do what I can.”

* * *

 

Laurentius cannot quite dredge up any dread when Temeraire walks into the deserted clearing followed by several of his 'volunteers' and a large crate. It isn't time for a meal; they aren't here to cook, unless the crate is full of some bizarre exotic spices Temeraire wants him to try. That is quite possible; it has happened before.

But instead Temeraire comes to a stop in front of him, beaming, and without any signal his men start unpacking the crate. “Oh, Laurentius! I am sorry it took so long, but I have had this made for you, and I hope you enjoy it - “

And, oh, there's the dread.

Temeraire steps back with something of a flourish. It takes the Chinese volunteers, grunting with effort, a minute more to pull out a pair of long golden braces and display them.

“They go over your forearms,” says Temeraire when Laurentius can say nothing for a moment, and, oh dear. The torque was clearly only the beginning. He is going to end up like Granby at this rate.

“Will you put them on now?” Temeraire prompts.

“Oh... my dear, perhaps later. Are you not meant to... to be giving lessons to your runners...” This seems to be the wrong track to take. Temeraire darkens immediately.

“Oh, no. We had _wonderful_ news today,” he sulks. “So lessons were closed early... But!” Temeraire shakes himself with an effort. “That is why I chose now, to give you the braces!” He looks up at Laurentius pleadingly.

“And they are lovely,” Laurentius says, because he is weak. “Whatever interrupted the lessons?”

“Oh, they are giving Perscitia a chance at a Greyling. Although I do not see why she _wants_ one when of course you are far superior.”

“I am sure she will still visit, dearest. You cannot fault her for desiring the company of others.”

“Yes, but she could always be having our company instead, and we are better,” Temeraire says.

Laurentius just shakes his head. “It is an unkindness to resent her good-fortune.” Temeraire huffs and grumbles. “ - Have I told you much about my first captain, Edith?”

Temeraire perks up immediately. “No, you have not,” he says.

“She was the only daughter of a lord. She should not have been present for my hatching at all – she was not an aviator, but her family was at the covert when I hatched, and she wanted to watch when she heard a dragon was going to be harnessed.” Laurentius pauses. “The man they wanted me to take... I do not remember his name... They used nets in those days, and sometimes hooks to trap the hatchlings; he pinned me so I could not fly. In the egg I could hear men talking about the King and the necessity of protecting England, and I thought I was quite prepared, but I knew I would not serve that man. It rebelled against every notion I had – I could not do it.”

“Of course not,” Temeraire begins.

“I _should_ have,” Laurentius interrupts, shooting him a firm look. “It was my duty. But you see, the matter of our Captains goes beyond duty. Edith was good, and kind, and... she gave me my name.” Laurentius pauses for a moment.

The silence stretches on. “... I suppose that Perscitia is better than many people here, anyway,” Temeraire mutters. “...So she will be a good captain. For the dragon's sake.”

“That is very generous of you, Temeraire,” Laurentius says.

“But I am _sure_ she will think better of the whole thing, anyway - “

* * *

 

“The measurements are almost done,” Arkady says – somewhat unhappily. “If you can just _hold still,_ I will give you a nice, shiny copper plate to play with tomorrow _...”_

Tharkay stares the leader of his grounds-crew right in the eye. Slowly, without looking away, he reaches out and pushes over the carefully-spread rows of harness straps and buckles until they lay tangled and confused in the grass.

Arkady throws up his hands. “Fine!” He snarls. He looks over to Laurentius, stretched out in the sun and watching with bemusement. “Fine!” he repeats. “You can tell the Admiral so-and-so I am _quite done_ with this ridiculous – argh!” he turns and stalks away.

“You are aggravating him on purpose,” Laurentius says.

“Of course I am,” Tharkay agrees. “And he talks to me like I'm a particularly brain-injured magpie. A copper plate, indeed - “ He curls up, eyeing the harness-straps like he's determining how best to brutalize them further. “...Anyway, if I let myself be bribed, I will be content with nothing less than solid gold.”

* * *

 

Temeraire's Poetry Nights – complete with his milky foreign tea, including a large and pungent vat of the stuff suitable for dragons – continue despite the relative strain of Dover's frequent patrol-schedule. They are not an awful idea, Laurentius admits; certainly they ensure that he knows the crew very well, and anyway most of them seem to enjoy the occasions, though aside from Cantarella, eager little Minnow, and Gentius it is rare now for anyone to offer up bits of poetry themselves.

Sometimes the other dragons and crews of their formation drift in and out of Laurentius' clearing on these nights, and Tharkay's presence – a muttering, laconic voice from the back – is guaranteed. It is a new, very different routine, but not a bad one.

However, tonight when all the candles and parchments and cakes are put away, and the crew is stumbling away to sleep, Laurentius is left staring down at yet another crate and Temeraire's hopeful eyes. This, this is not a good routine.

“My dear,” he begins, and has to stop. He does not know how to continue.

“You need not say anything, Laurentius!” Temeraire tells him happily. “I will open it for you - “

They are talon sheaths, delicately pointed and burnished bronze to match his scales. Temeraire seems more pleased with this gift than any previous one. “Oh, but.... however did you know my size?” Laurentius asks weakly. Then he recalls Temeraire insisting two weeks prevously – with many odd smiles - that the harness-master should be allowed to measure him more _thoroughly_ so he could make better, precise equipment.

They had even measured his tail. And a few of his teeth, which he had found exceptionally strange... Oh, dear.

Somehow he manages a polite reply. But, oh, he really needs to stop this.

“I thought,” says Temeraire, “That you might wear them to the abolitionist debate I'm attending this weekend.”

Laurentius stares. “I beg your pardon?”

“It sounds quite interesting, and I would like to support Lord Galman and the others - “

Laurentius winces.

“ - who are arguing to ban slavery in the colonies and to end the trade,” Temeraire finishes. “England really has many horrible laws, Laurentius.”

“Yes,” he agrees absently. Then he winces. “But of course they should not be criticized, Temeraire.”

The captain looks disappointed. “You disagree? Then you will not come?”

“I – do not disagree, necessarily, with...” Laurentius trails off. He tries to imagine the trouble Temeraire might find in arguing at such a talk. “...Very well, I will attend.”

Saturday is a perfectly fine day for late summer, and Laurentius spends a wistful morning thinking of lazy flights and sunbathing. His bones are getting too old for all this fighting, he reflects ruefully – and untruthfully. Then Temeraire troops into the clearing and he is distracted at once:

“Surely you do not mean to bring everyone?”

“This is not everyone,” Temeraire says. “Only Majestatis, and Minnow, and Laculla, and Ventiosa, and...”

Granby flies in behind him bearing only light gear and a single passenger. “Were you attempting to leave without me?” Iskierka demands.

“ - Iskierka wanted to come, too,” Temeraire finishes more moodily.

Granby starts to defend, “She feels very passionately about - “

“Hurry now,” Iskierka tells Temeraire. “I will not be late because of you, even if it _will_ be embarrassing to walk anywhere together.” Iskierka looks Temeraire up and down with disapproval; his aviator's coat is, admittedly, a little rumpled. Temeraire looks affronted.

“...Everything,” Granby finishes lamely.

“Well that is nice,” Temeraire begins, “When I invited you...”

“Let us go, indeed,” Laurentius says hurriedly. “My dear, we should not keep anyone waiting.”

“Oh, very well.” Temeraire shoots Iskierka a frosty look even as he climbs into the harness.

“I am sure this will be very interesting,” Laurentius hears Iskierka saying to her companion, “and anyway it is good we were invited; we can keep that fool Temeraire in check, and I will tell everyone about my ideas - “

Temeraire sighs exaggeratedly, as though he is not sneaking glances at Iskierka every few seconds as they fly away.

As Temeraire said, the meeting is outside and there is quite enough room for even a heavy-weight to land beside the raised platform with its neat tables and catered dishes. Dozens of guests – well-coiffed, respectable guests, Laurentius notes with increasing unease – cease their milling to stand and stare as the two dragons come closer. A few people begin to back away. Laurentius cannot imagine what Admiral Excidium will say if Lords start complaining that they have been intimidated or threatened by feral dragons just outside Whitfield.

“Captain Temeraire! I am glad you made it.” Mr. Overton's voice is tinny with distance as they approach the group, but it seems to help reassure the other non-aviators below, which is really the point. His voice rings more clearly as Laurentius lands a considerate distance away. Granby comes down neatly beside him. “We are glad for your support, Captain!” he calls.

“Are you so uncertain of your position you must bring dragons to bear, now?” Someone else asks immediately. Laurentius looks through the crowd and finds a pale, nervous face that seems vaguely familiar – but then, so many faces are these days.

“Now, Lord Fitzroy - “ Ah. Edith knew one of his relatives; an unkind man. “I would like to introduce you to Captain Temeraire, and Captain...?”

“Iskierka,” she says before Temeraire can.

There are a few murmurs. “Of course, Sir,” Overton says after a brief hesitation. Laurentius eyes Iskierka dubiously. Her voice is very high, but perhaps they are mistaking her for a particularly tall and particularly young boy. With exceptionally long hair... “ - And Captains, Lord Fitzroy and Lord Galman, who are hosting the event.”

Galman.

Temeraire exchanges pleasantries while his crew cautiously fans out among the assembly and Laurentius inspects the man. Edith's family – perhaps her direct descendent. She had only one child, a child due to inherit who refused to be an aviator. Laurentius only knew him as a babe.

Temeraire is still talking to several of the guests. Some of them seem interested in his age. “You inherit the dragons, is that not how it works?” one man asks, and when Temeraire says he did _not_ inherit Laurentius they all seem stumped.

”Some of your crew seems... young,” Miss Merilyn Brigham says tactfully. Turning her head, she leans down and asks, “Mr.... Minnow? Do your parents not worry for you?”

Minnow stares up at her and slowly starts to shift closer to Temeraire.

“He has none,” Temeraire says.

“Oh.” This does nothing to reassure the poor woman. “I am so very sorry; but what of you, Mr.... Laculla?”

“He doesn't either.”

Miss Merilyn opens her mouth. Hesitates. “And you, dear Captain?”

“Oh, no. The Corps have been very kind.” Miss Merilyn looks distressed.

”Oh dear,” mutters one of the rich old woman behind her. “I had no idea the Corps were manned by orphans, but I suppose no one else _is_ likely to join... Do you suppose we should make a donation?”

Laurentius sighs.

Finally Lord Fitzroy and Lord Galman take to the front and bid everyone find their seats. The scheduled speakers go sit at the front for their debate.

Those with investments in the slave-trade begin speaking first, as the guests of the event. Laurentius gradually realizes from the ongoing conversation that the meeting is about the continuance of trade and the English colonies, with the hosts trying to show why it should end - apparently there are no slaves in England herself. Which is good, but vaguely disconcerting, because Laurentius doesn't remember when that law must have passed. He paws the ground and draws a few nervous glances.

The discussion bounces back and forth. The abolitionists base their arguments on the merits of human life, the right to freedom, religious and spiritual equality in all men – these arguments are not surprising, and Laurentius has heard them before. He is more taken aback when these points, after a few earnest and sincere opening parries, give way to rhetoric which more directly attacks the opposing pro-slavery stances.

“It is _not_ economically sound,” one man says, “To perpetuate a finite and expensive source of manpower while discouraging the native populace from actually working. Nor can such a tactic be recommended politically, when we are already making enemies among the African nations and have yet to realize or understand the full benefits which could result from _alliances...”_

Laurentius eyes the stranger. He understands the intent, of course: if arguments of ethics will not sway someone to better actions, perhaps an argument of practicality will. Still, it seems remarkably cold to sit here and tut at the _economics_ of slavery when they are discussing very real human lives.

“Why, _they_ would not even know what to do if we sent them back to Africa,” someone says. “And just setting them loose... You, what do you think?” and Laurentius realizes he's pointing at Majestatis.

Temeraire straightens indignantly, but the lieutenant looks supremely unimpressed. “I think my situation can't be compared,” he says, “Considering I was born in England, to parents who've always been free, and I'm an English citizen.”

“So you're different?”

“I think I can't speak for anyone. But speaking for myself, you're full of it.”

The speaker swells up, indignant, and Mr. Overton hastily intervenes. “I believe,” he says, “That we have exhausted our topics for this meeting – and moreover our time has run out.” It ran out ten minutes ago. No one really cared before. “I would like to thank our speakers...”

“How terrible,” Temeraire says as the guests break apart and begin to talk in small, clearly divided groups, “That there is all this talk, and nothing happening. In China this sort of awful trade would not be allowed, I am sure. The Emperor would execute anyone who tried it.”

His voice is not quiet. He earns a few dark looks.

“I suppose that is one solution, dear.”

“We barely have any slaves in China now,” Temeraire adds. Laurentius pauses.

“We are not leaving yet?” Granby murmurs nearby. Laurentius had quite forgotten he was there.

Of course a dragon-whisper carries quite far, and one of the guests, apparently a little inured to their presence by now, turns and walks a little closer to address Granby. “The after-discussion is far more important than the debate,” she says. “ - This is when everyone argues.”

“Oh dear,” says Laurentius.

Temeraire indeed proves viciously enthusiastic. Laurentius has a difficult time keeping track of his small form hurrying around and gesturing hugely to make himself noticed. “Lieutenant Majestatis,” he says, noticing the lieutenant nearby, “Could you pray stay near Temeraire – I am not sure I trust this crowd.”

The man touches his head. “I really think I should stay with Laculla and Minnow here,” he says apologetically.

“Oh...yes.” Ventiosa seems to be hovering by one of the food tables. “Whyever did they come along? They are too young to make any contributions.”

“Temeraire thought the experience would be good for us all – political participation, and such” His voice is dry as dust. “I suppose he wasn't choosy about volunteers. China seems like an odd place, Sir.”

“And what of you?”

Laurentius turns and stares at Lord Galman. “I – I beg your pardon, Sir,” he asks carefully. The man has Edith's eyes, wide and piercing.

“What is your opinion, dragon?”

He wonders if Lord Galman recognizes him, remembers him through stories. The man will not quite meet his eye. “I do not think I am qualified to give an opinion, Sir, or to make any criticisms of His Majesty's government.”

“Of course we must criticize them,” says Lord Galman. “Nothing changes if you never criticize government. I love my country, and no man can say otherwise, but that does not mean it is flawless.”

Laurentius shifts uneasily.

“Perhaps,” says Temeraire, appearing unexpectedly, “It is easier for you to say that when you have the freedom. I suppose a dragon cannot talk against the government without being threatened, or called dangerous, so it is unfair to criticize _him._ ”

Lord Galman looks a bit disconcerted at the sudden shift. “I had not thought of that,” he admits after a moment. “Of course, I've never thought much of dragons having an interest in politics before.”

“Well that's because you're not supposed to think about it here,” Temeraire says. “In China there are cities where dragons run the local government themselves, or might be governors or advisors. In Japan there are whole noble families of dragons with titles and land, although in _our_ country they are promoted by merit and intelligence.”

“Intelligence?” asks Lady Galman, fascinated.

“We test them on poetry, and mathematics, and traditional logic – all the normal things,” Temeraire says. Everyone nearby mutters in disbelief.

“This is very interesting,” someone else says. “But a little off topic,” and fortunately the conversation is pulled back on-course.

The hour is mercifully late. Laurentius ruffles his wings and considers the successful possibility of pulling Temeraire away long enough to convince him that Minnow – who seems perfectly entranced with a deck of cards one of the indulgent older woman handed over – should really be getting back to the covert.

“Wilberforce is pushing for laws in Parliament,” Overton says nearby. “And your support, Sir...”

A crash resounds from the opposite side of the room. “You little rat!”

“I didn't say anything that was not true - !”

Mr. Atteberry – one of the earlier speakers – tosses Iskierka away from him so hard that she's flung back half a dozen paces and lands sprawling. This evokes a shocked cry from the guests and Majestatis abandons his post to start moving forward. His intervention, however, isn't necessary.

Granby flings himself across the raised platform and crushes tables, candles, and chairs in his haste. People rush out of his path with startled shrieks. A burst of violent orange flame pierces the darkness, lighting up the face of Atteberry before Iskierka is swept away in his protective claws.

A second later Atteberry lies on the ground, stunned, with his sleeve smoldering. Someone is shouting curses at Granby, but Laurentius only thinks to himself, _he is lucky to be alive._

For once Iskierka is not making the threats. “Touch her again,” Granby says, “And I will fling your body over the ocean!” Without further comment he spins around and throws himself through the air and into the direction of Dover covert.

Majestatis begins pushing the runners toward Laurentius. “My dear,” he murmurs to Temeraire in the following silence. “I believe it is time for us to go.”

* * *

 

Granby departs to his own clearing to brood over Iskierka – despite her earnest desire to return and 'get even' with one Mr. Atteberry – and Temeraire's own crew flee the scene with impressive alacrity. Temeraire himself lingers.

“I suppose that was not an entire success... but it was interesting nonetheless.”

“Temeraire,” Laurentius feels he must say, “It is commendable to pursue outside goals – that is, to work for the betterment of the community – but perhaps such matters should be best left to those more equipped to deal with matters of politics and the state...”

“Whyever should I not have an interest in politics if I will live in this country?” Temeraire demands. “How very silly. And anyway, Mr. Overton invited me to a meeting to discuss women's voting rights next month, and it would be quite rude not to attend.”

“...Yes, I suppose we would not want to be _rude...”_

Not noticing his tone, Temeraire adds, “Oh, and we were interrupted because of Iskierka's great silliness,” which is not how Laurentius would have described the evening, “But, Laurentius, I meant to give you this...”

He rushes off and returns momentarily with, to Laurentius' dismay, a box nearly half Temeraire's own size.

“It is for you,” Temeraire says, stating the obvious. “And it...”

“No.”

Temeraire stops. “...No?”

“No, my dear. I will not take more gifts. I have had quite enough. More than enough. I will look as ridiculous as – well, as Granby - “ Laurentius mentally apologizes to the poor light-weight.

“They look so very nice on you, Laurentius!”

“I understand what you intend well,” Laurentius says. “But I appreciate having a choice in my own affairs, Temeraire. You speak very much of what is best for me and should make me happy, yet you never seem to actually listen to what I say.”

Temeraire looks miserable. “I only want to make things better,” he says quietly.

“I know, my dear,” says Laurentius gently. “But I would appreciate if you did not try to impose your wishes without my approval in the future. You give me these expensive ornaments, and change the food, and do _not_ think I did not hear you asking the grounds-crew about building a 'pavilion' - “ Temeraire's startled look of guilt is enough of an admission. “ - I will tell you if I am ever wanting for improvement.”

“Oh, but you will not!” Temeraire bursts. “Laurentius, if I am to stop helping you – _imposing,”_ he corrects at Laurentius' look, “then you must certainly promise to tell me the instant you are dissatisfied – the very instant something makes you unhappy, or when something could make you _happier._ That is all I want, and I always fear you will never say a word.”

Laurentius is quiet for a moment. “If it will ease your fears then I shall give that promise: I shall be as honest as is possible in all matters. Will that suffice?”

“Oh, yes. I only want _you_ to think of yourself, Laurentius. If you would but do that I would be the happiest person in the world.”

* * *

 

After a candid discussion Laurentius affirms that he is quite content to continue Poetry Night (to Temeraire ill-disguised relief) but he still insists on doing away with the trinkets. “No, my dear; I am sorry, but I do not need or want to keep myself covered in gold like some hoarding creature of legend. _You_ may keep all the gold you like, but I have no use for it.”

Temeraire sighs a bit sadly. “None of it?” he asks.

Laurentius pauses, remembering a warm night by a fire, strange sounds on the air, and _for the rest of our lives -_ “... Well,” he says, and Temeraire perks up, so he continues. “...I will admit, Temeraire, I am fond of the first piece you gave me – the torque.” It is horribly impractical, of course, but - “I should like to keep that, perhaps - “

“Oh, of course!” And Temeraire looks so happy Laurentius cannot bring himself to regret it.

They have two surprising guests at the next Poetry Night. Perscitia shows up with a small young Greyling – her harnessing has evidently been successful, though Temeraire has breathed no word of it since his first mention of the possibility. “I have named him Wellington,” Perscitia says when they come up to Laurentius. The tiny dragon peers up at him from beside Laurentius' talon, perhaps half Perscitia's own height. “I think it is a fine name. And he is very small, and will not get much bigger, so we will not have to fight anyone at all.”

“You do not need to keep saying that,” Wellington says irritably. “I could fight. But I suppose it is just as well. We shall put ourselves to some better use, I am sure. War is not all about guns and claws.”

“It is not?” Temeraire asks dubiously.

Wellington eyes him coolly. “It is just as well _you_ have a Regal Copper, then,” he says. “Come then, Perscitia, show me again that book on tactics.” She beams and touches his neck as they walk off together.

“I do not like him in the _least,”_ Temeraire sulks. And Laurentius just laughs.

* * *

 

Tharkay scratches at a small burn-mark in his hide. “It is nonsense, this fighting,” he complains, slumping against the Regal Copper. “I have told you, Laurentius, there are still mountains where wild dragons are free. We could take your captain with us,” he offers.

“I doubt Temeraire would be happy with neither poetry nor tea,” Laurentius answers.

“We could kidnap a poet. And a tea-maker.”

“I believe,” Laurentius says, “There are a few flaws in that plan.”

Tharkay sniffs.

“I sometimes gather you do not like Temeraire, Tharkay.”

“Not at all. I am quite fond of him, Laurentius – he is an excellent human. And very small. The small ones are best, because they have not had the time to grow stupid and slow yet. Do you see how fast he is?” Tharkay adds, and Laurentius turns to see Temeraire practically bounding into the clearing.

“Hello, Tharkay,” Temeraire says, and doesn't flinch when the light-weight jumps away from Laurentius to stand next to him.

“Hello – and goodbye, I think. I am going to go on a short visit.”

“To where?” Laurentius asks suspiciously.

“Nowhere you would know.” And without ceremony Tharkay tosses himself into the air and is gone.

Suddenly Temeraire seems nervous. “It is good we are alone,” he says. “For I wanted to speak with you, actually.”

“About something in particular.”

“Yes. Yes.” Temeraire takes a breath. “As we have already agreed to be honest with one another... Oh, I do not know how to begin.” The young captain glances around. “Will you promise to be very discreet about what I say next?” he asks earnestly. “It is a secret – a very important secret, but I cannot keep it from you, Laurentius.”

“Very well, my dear, of course. But whatever is so important?”

“When I joined the aviators, I told them I was all alone – but that was not true,” Temeraire confesses. “I arrived at this country with my guard Gong Su, who you have met. And I have been sending reports to my family in China about what I have seen. They are considering opening trade with Western countries and information on how your people go deal with dragons and warfare is very important to their decision.”

Laurentius jolts. “ _You_ are a spy?” he demands incredulously.

“Not at all,” Temeraire says hastily. “Only they are quite harmless letters, and harmless pieces of information - “

Laurentius sits back on his haunches despairingly. Temeraire is very intelligent but, after all, only nine years old. Likely he sees no contradiction is swearing oaths to England and then handing information about the Corps over to some Chinese nobles or courtiers. To his family. His very-much alive family. The dragon shakes his head. Well, it is too late now to change anything, and he certainly cannot tell any of this to the Admiralty. He cannot bear to imagine what they would do. “It seems like a strange plan nevertheless, even for the purpose of learning about Europe.”

“...Well, originally it was intended that I would be sent to France so I might foster with the Emperor there,” Temeraire admits. Laurentius feels his blood run cold. “But our ship went off-course. When we landed in England I decided I liked this idea quite better. It was much more exciting.”

“I see,” says Laurentius faintly. “Wait. You know who the Emperor is?”

“No, though surely my father must know.”

“Yes. Yes.” He blinks. “...Well, my dear, I must say I am glad for your decision, if... if only because it has brought us together.”

Temeraire perks up. “I quite agree, Laurentius. And one must say that everything has worked quite well in the end, is that not so?” he asks hopefully.

Laurentius sighs. “Perhaps, Temeraire, we should talk about the contents of these letters of yours...”

* * *

 

The last few patrols have been entirely without incident. Today Tharkay is so bored he's flying in tiny loops above the rest of the formation, taking full advantage of his adjacent position to the others.

“He will tire himself,” Recquiscat says from Laurentius' back.

“I do not think so,” Temeraire says. “ - Tharkay never seems tired unless he wants to be. It would take more than patrolling to wear him down.”

Abruptly, however, the light-weight stops and rushes down to fly alongside Laurentius. “Signal them to fly a bit higher,” he says. “And faster. There's a ship sinking ahead of us, one of ours.”

Rapidly Temeraire repeats the order, though everyone has heard; the formation rises as one and with the added elevation Laurentius, too, can see a tilting sail on the horizon. Farther beyond is a second sail and the waving French tricolor.

Captain Maximus' signal-ensign works rapidly to give directions. In a moment Warren, Sutton, Granby, and Tharkay himself peel away from the main formation to tear after the distant ships.

Granby starts breathing fire long before the half-formation of light-weights reach the ships. It seems like an effective threat because the French sail is well away by the time Laurentius and the others come onto the scene.

Granby alone hassles the prize. The _HMS Bulletin_ was a third-rate. She could have had a crew of 700. Warren and Sutton are plucking the worst swimmers from the water when the formation arrives, and Tharkay, with grim determination, has latched onto a broken section of the ship that is keeping many of the sailors aloft. Even this piece is heavy and he's only fighting the sinking by slow increments, flapping his wings rapidly. He has no harness for the seamen to latch onto.

With the arrival of the other dragons he abandons this pursuit – men cry out as the whole construct lurches – and begins grabbing men and ferrying them to the other dragons indiscriminately.

Laurentius, who has few crewmembers, ends up with almost as many passengers as the larger Berkley. One-strap carabiners are rigged for as many of the sailors are possible; there simply aren't enough supplies for everyone, and many are forced to latch onto proper crewmembers and hope for the best. “Oh, fly slowly, Laurentius,” Temeraire says. “I do not think they will stay on at all in fast speeds,” which is a comment he rather hopes no one overhears.

Scouring the water is a grim job, especially when it finally seems that there is no one left to rescue. Laurentius cannot help but be guiltily relieved – they are really overburdened as-is – but he knows they have not found all the crewmen. At least two hundred must be missing.

They fly back to Dover with haste as the surgeon hurries to check everyone. Granby catches up bleeding heavily from a cannon-ball to the leg but seems otherwise well. No one asks after the French ship.

And then he hears, “Captain Riley would ask to speak to whoever is in charge,” and twists his head mid-flight.

A somewhat-wet sailor winces under his gaze. Gentius frowns. “Your captain is aboard?” he asks slowly. An impatient nod. “Very well. Have him come to the front, if he is well; it is preferred that our captain can be heard by Laurentius, you see.” Laurentius rather appreciates that.

The sailor glances at him, wincing a little, but nods. Laurentius has to turn his attention back to his flight with only occasional peeks back over his shoulder. Above, Tharkay seems to be peering down with restrained amusement.

Finally his anxiety pays off. A man in a well-fit captain's uniform – neatly buttoned and accompanied by a precise tie, despite his own dampness – appears near Laurentius' shoulders. “Hello,” Temeraire says. The captain blinks down at him. “You must be Captain Riley. And this is – oh, are you quite well, Recquiscat?” The lieutenant stumbles over holding a linen to his bleeding forehead.

“You are the captain, then?” Riley asks. “You aviators do always have such odd names.”

“No, I am Captain Temeraire,” Temeraire chirps. He stands straight and tall, his head held just a little too high in an effort to find the other commander's eyes. “You may give us your report.”

There is a brief silence.

“I beg your pardon?” Riley says at last.

“Your report,” Temeraire says, as though oblivious of anything wrong. “Admiral Obversaria will require an accounting of how this attack was managed before we came.”

Riley looks at him blankly.

“My captain has asked you a question,” prods Laurentius softly. “ - Did you not _hear_ it, Sir?”

Riley jolts. Paling, he looks up at the Regal Copper. “I beg your pardon,” he says quickly. “I wanted to ask about our course - “

“Oh, yes. We can talk about all of that at once, there is a tent set up along the back for tea - “

“Tea?'

“Excellent,” Laurentius says. “Temeraire, why do you not you take Lieutenant Recquiscat with you?”

“Oh, no; Recquiscat, please see the surgeon. Whatever did you do, anyway?”

“I was _helping_ the surgeon. One of the sailors got confused and kicked me,” the lieutenant complains. Riley winces. Recquiscat wanders off.

“ _Lieutenant_   _Majestatis,_ then,” Laurentius stresses.

Riley eyes him nervously. Temeraire looks a little puzzled, but Majestatis appears as though from the air. “Shall we, Sir?”

“Oh, very well.”

Perhaps Laurentius needs to give his crew a bit more credit.

* * *

 

“It is odd,” Temeraire says, “That the French have been so quiet – that attack on Captain Riley's ship was the first in quite awhile.”

“Bonaparte often tries to change his patterns; that is nothing new.”

“I suppose.” The captain sighs. “Oh, Laurentius, I do not know – this entire war is very strange to me. It is so odd to fight an enemy and know little about them.”

“We know there was a Revolution in France – full of bloodshed, and murder – and we know King Loius was killed and the entire Bourbon family vanished. They, too, might have been murdered - That cannot be forgiven.”

“From my understanding no one liked them very much anyway,” Temeraire says not very graciously. “ - Not that that excuses murder, but I am not sure why anyone should go to war over what someone _else_ chooses to do in their own country.”

“It is more the principal...” Laurentius pauses. “My dear, please stop this line of talk at once.”

“Laurentius, I will hardly refuse to say what I think.”

“Certainly, Temeraire, but please, just oblige me for a moment. The Admirals are coming.”

Temeraire turns.

Admiral Obversaria, Admiral Excidium, and Admiral Laetificat file into the clearing as one. Admiral Laetificat seems to be leading the procession.

“No need to be alarmed,” Excidium says, shooting his colleague a suspicious look. “We're just here to - “

“Ask about those blasted fire displays every Friday,” Laetificat says. “We've asked your crew what's happening. Poetry Nights. What are you doing, Captain Temeraire?”

“Would you like to come?” Temeraire asks. “We would be glad for you to join us, Admirals.”

Excidium looks amused. “ _No,_ ” Laetificat says. “You are a soldier in His Majesty's Service. It is not professional for you to serve balls and host parties when...”

“Sir,” Laurentius interrupts, because Temeraire already looks resigned, “If I may, I hardly remember anything in the regulations restricting these activities. Furthermore I imagine that how a captain chooses to bond with his crew outside of hours of duty should be his or her own prerogative. Have these nights interfered with anyone's work?”

“No, however - “

“Has our crew complained? I do not believe attendance is mandatory,” he adds.

“No,” Obversaria answers. “I believe they rather enjoy the nights, actually.

“Then I fail to see the problem.”

“Perhaps you are right,” Excidium interrupts. Laetificat shoots him a look that the other Admiral ignores. “But please keep your activities a little more discreet, Captain Temeraire. We have had word of your discussions at the debate last month, and Lord Fitzroy has been most... verbose.”

“Yes, but we have also had so many new recruits,” Temeraire enthuses. “Mr. Moors and Mr. Kendal would not have joined the Corps if I had not gone to that debate!”

All the admirals look pained. “Yes,” Obversaria says. “We have had many donations... And a great influx of orphans who have wanted to sign on. I suppose that is. Something. Nevertheless...”

Temeraire agrees. He can be subtle, he says. Laurentius is a bit less sure.

* * *

 

Temeraire decides to prove his ability to not make waves by throwing a _Grand_ Poetry Night and, again, inviting their entire formation – along with Perscitia and Wellington, now comfortably the size of a large horse.

This is about what Laurentius expected, really.

He sits with Tharkay and watches the cheerful crowd with indulgence, pondering how much his life has changed in the past few months. He cannot regret anything. Tharkay side-eyes him as Temeraire takes to the stage and begins reciting a poem about some sort of flying fish to the sound of half-drunken encouragement from the crowd. “I suppose we will _not_ be going to the mountains, then?” he asks.

“No,” Laurentius says. “No, I am sorry. I think not.”

“Well.” Tharkay settles beside him and shuffles his wings. “Perhaps that is just as well. I have heard there are only goats to eat in mountains, and that does not sound pleasant at all.”

The fires start to burn low as the night wears on. No one seems eager to make the walk back to Dover, instead nodding off by the fire or on the grass next to their chosen dragons while the more daring souls wander to the stage every now and again to recite lulling poetry toward the crowd. Laurentius stretches out and places his head on his forepaws. The heat from the dimming fires warm him nearly as well as a midday sunning, and the pleasant chatter from the aviators provides a background buzz that numbs his mind.

Temeraire walks over and breaks his peace.

“Do you suppose those are fireworks, Laurentius?” he asks. “It is only I did not know the English made such fireworks... Unless they are French?”

At the word 'French' Laurentius raises his head. Temeraire is pointing in the direction of the Channel. As Laurentius watches dozens of red sparks, evenly spread, burst and fall in slow arcs. The glow fades away. For a minute nothing happens. Then, not far from the first batch, dozens of lights burst and fall in the same boxlike pattern.

One red glow stays and simmers, dim and low, on the horizon. Laurentius jerks up.

“It is an attack,” he says. “ - Everyone in the air!”

Wellington and Perscitia disappear in the direction of Dover at an agonizingly slowly rate. The Greyling is still too young for strenuous flying, really. The rest of the aviators, startled from their stupors, scramble aboard their dragons without quite enough discrimination. “We are not prepared for a fight,” Temeraire says when he's latched onto Laurentius. “Many of the men have their guns from habit, but we have no powder, no - “

“No time,” Laurentius declares, beating at once toward the source of the distant, flicking lights.

He wears only a light harness. It is enough, but Recquiscat curses from his shoulder and orders an accounting of weapons as they fly. In the rush the dragons start to abandon formation, but Laurentius calls out, “Stop, we must stay together, and we must fly quietly – we will lose one another in the dark if we separate.”

“Granby will be able to see!” comes Iskierka's voice from the black.

“And Granby is too small to do more than irritate a Fleur-de-Nuit alone,” says another voice - Mid-weight Harcourt, he recognizes. “And they will have them.”

“Oh!” Temeraire cries. “Someone give Tharkay a lantern and cover it with a cloth from the front. We can follow him.”

Laurentius is still carrying a few miscellaneous supplies that weren't used at the Grand Poetry Night. Cantarella prepares the lantern and Tharkay grasps for it gingerly in the dark. Then he flies ahead – winging fast but carefully so only the shielded side will face the still-blinking lights – and bursts to the front of the formation, his lantern illuminating Berkley's orange and auburn scales.

When they reach the source of the bursting lights Laurentius hears dozens of wingbeats. Then he realizes there are dozens of _types,_ and what he hears are a hundred or more, with many dragons beating in-sync. With one burst a hundred different colors bloom in the sky, green and gray and blue all lit up by tiny fiery projectiles for an instant before the missiles fall in simultaneous arcs toward the ground. Wings and equipment rustle as the dragons move.

They've looking for ships, Laurentius realizes. The French are setting the whole ocean alight one section at a time.

Then Berkley roars and the next volley scatters. They attack.

Tharkay's lantern spins toward the sea as they surge forward. Laurentius has to listen for wingbeats as he searches for someone to ram, but before he can do so he's startled by a new sight. Granby shoots a short burst of fire into the darkness and the resulting flush of flame makes the formation scatter. Laurentius veers away, and when he twists around two huge fireballs are careening, crying, toward the water below.

Oil, powder, and fuel to be lit – the dragons must be heaped with the stuff. Granby clearly has the same thought. Another dragon screams his pain and goes up in flames nearby; Laurentius has to spiral away to avoid his mad descent, and it seems a French dragon below him is not so fortunate. Another spot in the darkness bursts into fire.

“Shoot them!” Laurentius calls. “They will explode, if they are so overburdened – shoot them at once!” And, emboldened, he flies forward without any direction at all.

The sky is so thick with enemies that one cannot fly without hitting someone. At one point a voice cries, “Do not shoot me! It is Harcourt,” and they promptly spring apart and tackle two different French dragons.

Iskierka's cackles sound like they come from every direction.

After a lucky shot from Laurentius' crew causes the explosion of yet another dragon – a pitiably small creature, Laurentius thinks as it wails off toward the sea – he looks around and blinks at the chaos of flaming, smoldering corpses on the ocean with a brief twinge of regret. When he lunges around experimentally he realizes he can hear only a few wings left in the sky. The nearby ones sound like his formation-mates. Anglewings, Grey Coppers, a Xenica, and -

Laurentius folds his wings and drops quickly as a shot of flame streaks past his previous position. “I beg your pardon!” he calls.

“Oh, sorry,” says Granby sheepishly. “ - I think they have fled; some of them tried shedding off that oily stuff, but it must have stuck to their scales. They were all quite flammable.”

Iskierka cackles again.

“I think we had best see to the ships,” Tharkay says from eerily close to Laurentius' head. He flies almost silently and in the darkness is far too quiet. “They managed to hit a few, I think. Whatever happened to them?”

Probably sunk, is the consensus; but they scour the ocean anyway and find nothing but a few gently-blazing dragon bodies. They do manage to rescue a few singed French prisoners from the water. Berkley leads the flight back to Dover as the sky starts to lighten.

Laurentius is unsurprised to see Admiral Excidium and Roland outside the covert when they arrive. In fact, he is rather more confused about the fact that no other formations joined them during the fight. “Admiral,” Captain Maximus says. “Good to see you well – were there any other attacks?”

“Oh, no. I believe you took care of it, Captain. Excellent work, all of you.”

Maximus looks a bit confused.

“We decided you had things quite well in hand,” Admiral Excidium explains. “After Perscitia roused the covert we took care of the ships instead. When we arrived, you see, it already seemed like the sky was on fire, and it would have been a shame to intervene with that.”

Granby coughs sheepishly. Iskierka looks pleased.

“Excellent work to _you,_ especially, Granby,” Roland says. “Damned good use of that fire. Wish I could have seen the look on their faces...”

Granby looks a little terrified to be addressed by Roland. “Oh,” he says weakly. “Yes. Thank you.”

“Now,” says Excidium briskly, “I believe you all deserve a rest. I will take your reports in the evening.” The sun is peeking up on the horizon. “Dismissed.”

* * *

 

“ _We_ organized the evacuation of the ships,” Perscitia says. “The ship captains were very grateful. Wellington is getting an _award_ , you know. Captain Rye says he is the finest dragon he has ever met.”

“It was an interesting challenge,” Wellington says. “As was assigning them to temporary quarters, and arranging the supplies. I have some further ideas to that end, actually, which I should like to discuss with their commander...”

“Oh, that is nothing,” Temeraire says. “I have never had such a splendid fight. You missed all the excitement, Perscitia.”

“ _Anyone_ can fling themselves throughout the air like fools and shoot at the dark,” she disdains. “We have all heard your accounting; and anyway it was all the fault of the French, for being so stupid as to make themselves flammable. Anyway, now the French aviators are badly hurt – maybe the Emperor was even among them. I suppose he must be afraid now that we know who he is.”

Laurentius startles. “We do?”

“Of course, yes, do you not know anything?” Perscitia asks impatiently. “The French assumed the sailors would all sink, or be captives; they spoke quite freely. Someone heard the dragons talking to an _Emperor Napoleon._ There was a Napoleon in one of the old formations – a Petit Chevalier. I think you've fought him, in fact. I wonder how he became Emperor?”

“Bloodily, I am sure,” Laurentius says uneasily.

“Also you have a letter,” Perscitia says. “I am a courier now, so I suppose I must give it to you.” With that she thrusts a very official-looking letter into Temeraire's startled grasp before walking off with Wellington.

Temeraire opens it. “Oh,” he says, shocked. And then Laurentius blinks, because Temeraire has set down the letter to start bowing to it in a very strange manner.

“Whatever are you doing now,” he despairs.

“Being respectful,” Temeraire says. Then he picks up the letter again and reads it. He looks up.

“My father would like to meet you,” he says.

Laurentius tilts his head. “Is not your father in China?”

“Yes,” Temeraire says. “He is the Chinese Emperor. But my brother is ill, and and he wants to ensure that you are a good companion for me, especially if I ever need to rule the country. I am certain that he will appreciate you, however.”

Laurentius stares at him. “My dear,” he says faintly, thinking in a distant way that he can only blame himself for never making the right inquiries, “I do not know why I ever expected your family to be normal.”

**Author's Note:**

> Translation of Zhao Li's poem by Daniel Hsieh http://www.sino-platonic.org/complete/spp077_19_han_dynasty_poetry.pdf


End file.
